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TOKEN FOR ALL SEASONS* 



J. M. FLETCHEK. 



HARTFORD: 

BROCKETT, FULLER & CO. 

SPRINGFIELD, MASS.; H. W. HUTCHINSON & CO. 

1848. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1813, 

B* J. BTJFFDM, 
the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 
New Hampshire. 



WlTttf 



7 

7 



Stereotyped and Printed 

BY S. N. DICKINSON & CO. 

BOSTON. 



PREFACE 



In this little volume the compiler has endeavored 
to unite a collection, which, by combining poetic 
talent and high moral sentiment with the social 
and intellectual, should form an elegant and appro- 
priate present for all seasons and occasions. Many 
of the selections are among the brightest gems 
■which adorn the English language, and will live as 
long as the spirit of poetry and a love of the beau- 
tiful find a dwelling-place in the human heart. It 
is submitted to the public with the hope that upon 
examination it will be found to be, what the com- 
piler has labored to make it, an acceptable gift. 

J. M. F. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

My native Land,— My native Place, Anon, 9 

Remember Me, Sleeper, 11 

Home of my Youth, Fletcher, 12 

Departed Friends, Anon, 13 

Album, Haynes, 14 

If I could Love, Brainard,- ••• 15 

The pity of the Park Fountain, • • • • Willis, 16 

Our Yankee Girls, Holmes, 18 

To a Friend, Anon, 19 

Acrostic. Lines to a Sister, Fletcher, 20 

A Mother at the Grave of her Child, Fletcher, 21 

The Nosegay, Brainard, • • • • 24 

Cheerfulness, Labree, 25 

To an absent Friend, Amulet, 26 

A Psalm of Life, Longfellow, • - 28 

Disappointment, Moore, 30 

TheEainbow, Holland, 31 



CONTENTS. 



Wealth not Happiness, Norton, 34 

To Harriet B— , two years of age, • • -Fletcher, 35 

Sunset, Ellet, 36 

Hearts we Love, Bacon, 37 

Memories of Youth, Dodue, 40 

Congenial Spirits, Oasis, 41 

The World as it is, Anon, 43 

The Will, Longfellow, •■ 44 

My Mountain Home, Anon, 45 

True Friendship, G. O. 46 

Forget me Not, Halleclc, 47 

The Merry Heart, Milman, 48 

Madrigal, Wolcot, 50 

To a Canary Bird, Fletcher, 51 

Lines in an Album, Anon, 52 

The Tulip and the Eglantine, Siyourney,- ■■• 53 

Mid-summer, Smith, 54 

By-past Hours. Tappan, 55 

The Lost Flower, Durivarje, • • • • 56 

The Anemone. To , Anon, 57 

Flowers, Smith, 58 

Mutability, Shelly, 59 

Mother, Home and Heaven, Anon, 60 

The Departed, Benjamin, ■ • • • 61 



CONTENTS. Tii 



The Motherless, Cheater, 63 

The Harmony of Nature, Anon, 66 

The Heart's Guest, Orne, 67 

On a Tear, Rogers, 68 

The Moon, Landon, 70 

Unseen Spirits, Willis, 71 

The Pilgrim Fathers, Pierpont, 73 

A Poet's Epitaph, Elliott, 75 

The Costliest Gift, Browne, 76 

The Broken Heart, Hogg, 79 

Farewell, Byron, 81 

Life, • • -Headley, 82 

The Floweret, Everest, 84 

Is it not Sweet, Moore, 86 

Wishes, Olive Branch, 87 

He is thy Brother yet, Bufford, 88 

"Whene'er I see, Moore, 90 

Rely on Right, Osgood, 91 

Go Forward, Colesworthy, • 92 

Lines on the death of C. J. Fox, Warland, • • • • 94 

The Life Clock, Anon, 95 

It is not always May, Longfellow, • • 98 

The Nettle, Edgarton, • • • • 99 

Weep for Yourselves, etc. Sigourney,- • • • 10~ 



viii 



CONTENTS. 



Sonnet, Coivper, 103 

May, Wordsworth, • 104 

Lines written in an Album, Fletcher, 10S 

Peace and Glory, Moore, 107 

Wee Willie, Anon, 109 

Nature, Wordsworth, • 112 

Nature's Beauties, Sleeper, 113 

The Worship of Nature, Whittier, 115 

Youth, Blackwood,- • • 117 

Is there a Heart, Anon, 119 

Love, Wordsworth, • 120 

Pure Affection, Croly, 120 

The Denouement, Osgood, 121 

Lines To , Montraville, • • 122 

The Southerner to a Yankee, Osgood, 123 

Early Woo'd and Won, Abdy, 124 

Love Everywhere, Willis, 126 

Remembrance, Bowles, 128 



THE 



GOLDEN GIFT 



My Native Land,— My Native Place. 

My thoughts are in my native land, 
My heart is in my native place, 

Where willows bend to breezes bland, 
And kiss the river's rippling face ; 

Where sunny shrubs disperse their scent, 
And raise their blossoms high to heaven, 

As if in calm acknowledgment 
For brilliant hues and virtues given. 

My thoughts are with my youthful days, 
Where sin and grief were but a name ; 

When every field had golden ways, 
And pleasure with the daylight came. 



10 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

I bent the rushes to my feet, 
And sought the water's silent flow, 

I moved along the thin ice ileet, 
Nor thought upon the death below. 

I culled the violet in the dell, 

Whose wild-rose gave a chequered shade, 
And listened to each village bell, 

So sweet by answering echo made. 

In God's own house, on God's own day, 
In neat attire, I bent the knee ; 

Pure sense of duty made me pray, — 
Joy made me join the melody. 

Thus memory, from her treasured urn, 
Shakes o'er the mind her spring-like rain ; 

Thus scenes turn up and palely burn, 
Like night-lights in the ocean's train. 

And still my soul shall these command, 
"While sorrow writes upon my face ; 

My thoughts are on my native land, 
My heart is in my native place. 

Anon. 



THE GOLDEN GIPT. 11 



Kemember Me. 

Remember me when not a cloud of sorrow 
Its shadow flings across my sunny way ; 

When all is bright, and Hope bespeaks the morrow 
As undisturbed and happy as to-day ; 

When throbs my heart with pleasure, and its foun- 
tain 

Is sending forth a stream of joy and love ; 
And clothes in beauty, every vale and mountain, 

And all the glowing canopy above. 

But when a tear is starting, and a sadness 
Is gathering o'er me, and my spirit's light 

Is being veiled, and all its cheering gladness 
Enshrouded in gloom like that of night ; 

And scenes that once were beautiful, are dreary, 
Fond hopes ere I can realize them, flee ; 

And when my soul has struggled till 't is weary ; — 
With kindly heart, oh then, remember me ! 

W. A. Sleeper. 



12 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Home of my Youth. 

How well I remember 

My boyhood's sweet home ! 
How oft in my sadness 

Its memories come ! 
For there with the beings 

On earth I loved best, 
I lived but too happy, 

Too happy to last. 

I remember the cot, 

So peaceful and still, 
So sweetly it stood, on 

The green sloping hill : 
The hill where I oft, 'neath 

The spreading oak's shade, 
From morning till sunset, 

Have gamboled and played. 

The silvery brook, that 

Went wandering through 
The mossy green mead, where 

The strawberries grew, 
The garden, the orchard, 

The grove, and the lane, 
Are all, all still fresh, 

In memory's chain. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 13 

I would not forget them, 

They 're dear to my heart, 
And often my fancy 

Will still take a part ; 
Still play on the hill-side, 

Still roam in the grove ; 
A father and mother, 
Sister and brother, 

That cherish and love. J. M. F. 



Departed Friends. 

The beautiful, — the beautiful 

Are faded from our track, 
We miss them, and we mourn them, 

But cannot lure them back ; 
For an iron sleep hath bound them 

In its passionless embrace ; 
We may weep, but cannot win them 

From their dreary resting place. 

W. H. Burleigh. 



14 THE GOLDEN 



Album. 



My name is Album, pretty name, 

As ladies oft do say ; 
I tell of beauty, love, and fame, 

And all that 's bright and gay. 

Come, giTe to me, that I may give 

Unto my lady fair, 
Bright visions which in thought do live, 

Fresh from the poet's lair. 

Cull me the sweetest of the sweet, 

The purest of the pure, 
That all that 's brightest, best, may meet 

In Album's fold secure. 

Hatnes. 




E GOLDEN GIFT. 15 



If I could Love. 

If I could love, I 'd find me out 

A roguish, laughing eye, 
A cheek to blush, a lip to pout, 

A pure kind heart, to sigh. 

A fairy hand, to touch and glance, 

From note to note with glee, 
A fairy foot to trip the dance 

And lead it down with me. 

A soul to share in all my fun, 

And feel for all my woes, 
And as our little life should run 

To take it as it goes. 

And 0, when follies all have fled 
And solemn thoughts shall rise, 

To soothe me on my dying bed 
And meet me in the skies 

Such thoughts are vain, too vain, yet why 
Should you such thoughts reprove ; 

pity, pity me, for I 
Am poor, and cannot love. 



16 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Tlie pity of the Park Fountain. 



'T was a summery day in the last of May, — 

Pleasant in sun or shade ; 
And the hours went hy as the poets say, 
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way ; 
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway, 

And the Fountain gaily played. 



The Fountain played right merrily, 

And the world look'd bright and gay ; 
And a youth went by, with a restless eye, 
Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry ■ 
And he prayed to God that he might die, — 
And the Fountain played away. 



Up rose the spray like a diamond throne, 
And the drops like music rang, — 

And of those who marvelled how it shone, 

Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone ; 

And he shut his teeth with a smothered groan, - 
And the Fountain sweetly sang. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 17 

And a rainbow spanned it changefully, 

Like a bright ring broke in twain ; 
And the pale, fair girl who stopped to see, 
Was sick with pangs of poverty, — 
And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee 

As tho rainbow smiled again. 

And all was gay, on another day, 

The morning will have shone ; 
And at noon, unmask'd, through bright Broadway 
A hearse will take its silent way ; 
And the bard who sings will have passed away, — 

And the Fountain will play on ! 

N. P. Willis. 




18 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Our Yankee Girls. 

Let greener lands and bluer skies, 

If such a wide earth shows, — 
With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes, 

Match us the star and rose ; 
The winds that lift the Georgian's veil, 

Or wave Circassia's curls, 
Waft to their shores the Sultan's sail, — 

Who buys our Yankee girls ? 

The gay grisette, whose fingers touch 

Love's thousand chords so well ; 
The dark Italian loving much, 

But more than one can tell ; 
And England's fair-haired blue-eyed dame 

'Who binds her brow with pearls, — 
Te, who have seen them, can they shame 

Our own sweet Yankee girls ? 

And what if court or castle vaunt 

Its children loftier born, — 
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt 

Beside the golden corn ? 
They ask not for the courtly toil 

Of jewelled knights and earls, 
The daughters of the virgin soil, 

Our free-born Yankee girls. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 19 

By eveiy hill, whose stately pine8 

Wave their dark arms above, 
The home where some fair being shines 

To warm the wilds with love ; 
From barest rock to bleakest shore, 

Where furthest sail unfurls, 
That stars and stripes are floating o'er, — 

God bless our Yankee girls ! 

O. W. Holmes. 



To a Friend. 

'T is o'er ! but never from my heart 

Shall time thine image blot ; 
The dreams of other days depart, — 

Thou shalt not be forgot. 
And never in the suppliant's sigh 
Poured forth to him who swayed the sky, 
Shall mine own name be breathed on high, 

And thine remembered not. 

Anon. 



20 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Acrostic. Lines to a Sister. 

Long have thy sweet smiles, beloved sister, 
Answering mine so oft, bespoke thy love ! 
Unchanging as the ceaseless course of time ; 
Remaining true, in illness and in health, 
A fountain, rich, of fond, undying love. 

May thy anxious desires for my good, 
And acts of kindness, prompted by thy love, 
Receive a just reward in heaven. 'T is now 
I see, and value them ; now thou : rt absent, 
And I am left with none who love like thee. 

Fond sister ! in the quiet midnight hour, 
Lonely and silent, I think of thee. Thou 
Enterest my thoughts, like some pure spirit, 
'Till my heart is full to overflowing. 
Comes fortune to us, sister, good or ill, 
Hours of soitow, or of happiness ; 
Ever the same may we still live through life, 
Remaining true to love, and to each other. 

J. M. F. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 21 



A Mother at the Grave of her Child. 

Yon spot in the churchyard, 

How sad is the bloom 
That summer flings round it 

In flowers and perfume ! 
It is thy dust, my darling, 

Gives life to each rose, 
'T is because thou hast withered, 

The violet blows. 

The lilies bend meekly 

Thy bosom above, 
But thou wilt not pluck them, 

Sweet child of my love ; 
I see the green willow 

Droop low o'er thy bed, 
But I see not the ringlets 

That decked thy fair head. 

I hear the bee humming 

Around thy bright grave : 
Can he deem death is hidden 

Where lovely flowers wave ? 
From the white cloud above thee 

The lark scatters song, 
But I listen for thy voice, 

How long ! Oh, how long ! 



22 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

How long, and how vainly, 

The night and the morn, 
But leave, as they find me, 

A mourner forlorn ; 
Light comes to the summer, 

And rain to the tree, 
But never, oh, never, 

Comes comfort to me. 

I walk now in darkness, 

With thee went the day, 
And pleasure died with thee, 

And love paled its ray ; 
I see but the shadow 

Of things as they were, 
And the world hath no dwellers 

But Grief, Death and Care. 

come back, my darling, 

And come back to-day ! 
Tor the soul of thy mother 

Grows faint with delay ; 
The home of thy childhood 

In order is set, 
The couch and the chamber, — 

Why com'st thou not yet ? 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



" Oh mother, sweet mother ! 

Whose love, like the wave, 
Hid treasures and jewels, 

And also a grave. 
Too strong in its fullness, 

Too deep in its power, 
Oh, hush, precious mother, 

The grief of this hour ! 

" I walk 'mid the palm trees, 

And drink of the rills, 
That on earth are but types of 

What God here fulfils ; 
The joys of my childhood, 

How dim they appear ! 
Yes, dim are the brightest, 

When looked on from here ! 

" Then stay not, then mourn not, 

Then yield not to fears ; 
The flowers love has planted, 

steep not in tears ; 
There 's beauty, there 's blessing, 

On earth left for thee, 
But bid me not share them, 

There 's more here with me." 



M. J. Fletcher. 



OLDEN GIFT. 



The Nosegay. 

I '11 pull a bunch of buds and flowers, 

And tie a ribbon round them, 
If you '11 but think, in your lonely hours, 

Of the sweet little girl that bound them. 

I '11 cull the earliest that put forth, 

And those that last the longest ; 
And the bud that boasts the fairest birth," 

Shall cling to the stem that 's strongest. 

I 've run about the garden walks, 
And searched among the dew, sir ; 

These fragrant flowers, these tender stalks, 
I 've plucked them all for you, sir. 

So here 's your bunch of buds and flowers, 
And here 's the ribbon round them ; 

And here, to cheer your saddened hours, 
Is the sweet little girl that bound them. 

Bbainard. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 25 



Cheerfulness. 

Oh ! why delight to wrap the soul 

In pall of fancied sadness ! 
'T were best be merry while we live, 

And paint our cheeks with gladness ; 
What if hope tells a " flattering tale," 

And mocks us by deceiving, 
'T is better far to be content, — 

There 's nothing made by grieving. 

The girls, heaven bless then 1 precious souls ! 

Are thick as bees about us ; 
And every mother's son well knows, — 

They could not do without us ; 
They 're dangerous, though, to meddle with, 

For they, too, are deceiving ; 
They '11 win and laugh, then flirt you, — yet 

There 's nothing made by grieving. 

Lawrence Labree. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



To an absent Friend. 

Thou art not gone ; thou couldst not go ; 

True friends can never part ; 
Our prayer is one, our hope is one, 

And we are one in heart ! 
Nor place, nor time, can e'er divide 

The souls which friendship seals ; 
But still the changing scenes of life, 

Their mutual love reveals. 

Body from body may he placed 

Remote as pole from pole, ; 
But can our fleshly frailties hind 

The fellowship of soul ? 
'T is when removed from grosser sense 

My spirit claims her right ; 
My friend is often least away 

When absent from my sight. 

His form and look, in memory's glass, 

I still distinctly see ; 
His voice and words, in fancy's ear, 

Are whispering still to me. 
The stars which meet his pensive eye 

Are present still to mine ; 
The moonlights, which surround his path, 

Around my footsteps shine. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 27 

Beneath the same fair dome we dwell, 

By the same hand are fed, 
And, pilgrims in one narrow way, 

Are by one spirit led ! 
To the great presence of our God, 

By hourly faith we come ; 
And find in sweet communion there, 

One everlasting home ! 

Our hope, our joy, our life, our soul, 

In our one Saviour meet ; 
And what in earth or heaven shall break 

A union so complete ? 
! blest are they who seek in Him 

A union to their friend ; 
Their love shall grow through life's decay, 

And live when life shall end. 

And blest be He whose love bestows 

A friendship so divine, 
And makes, by oneness with Himself, 

My friend for ever mine ! 

Amulet. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



A Psalm of Life. 



WHAT THE HEART OP THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO 
THE PSALMIST 

Tell me not in mournful numbers, 
" Life is but an empty dream ! " 

For tbe soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 

' Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 29 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ; 
Act, — act in the living Present, 

Heart within, and God o'erhead. 

Lives of great men all remind us 
"We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footsteps on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Longfellow. 



30 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Disappointment. 

Playful she turned that he might see 

The passing smile her cheek put on ; 
But when she marked how mournfully 

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; 
And, bursting into heartfelt tears, 
"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, 
My dreams have boded all too right, — 
We part, — for ever part, — to-night ! 
I knew, I knew it could not last, — 
'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past ! 
Oh ! ever thus, from childhood's hour, 

I 've seen my fondest hopes decay ; 
I never loved a tree or llower, 

But 't was the first to fade away. 
I never nursed a dear gazelle, 

To glad me with its soft black eye, 
But when it came to know me well, 

And love me, it was sure to die." 

T. ".'!•"> ORE. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Rainbow. 

The evening was glorious and light through the 

trees 
Play'd the sunshine, the raindrops, the birds and 

the breeze ; 
The landscape, outstretching, in loveliness lay- 
On the lap of the year in the beauty of May. 
For the queen of the spring, as she passed down 

the vale, 
Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the 

gale: 
And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours, 
While rank in her footsteps sprang herbage and 

flowers. 
The skies, like a banner, in sunset unrolled, 
O'er the west threw their splendors of az-ure and 

gold; 
But one cloud at a distance, rose dense, and in- 
creased 
Till its margin of black touched the zenith and east. 
We gazed on the scenes, while around us they 

glowed, 
When a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud ; 
'T was not like the sun, as at mid-day we view, 
Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through starlight 

and blue. 



di THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Like a spirit it came in the van of the storm, 

And the eye and the heart hailed its beautiful form ; 

For it looked not severe like an angel of wrath, 

And its garment of brightness illum'd its dark path. 

In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood 

O'er the river, the village, the fields and the wood ; 

And river, fields, village and woodland grew bright, 

As conscious they felt and afforded delight. 

'T was the Bow of Omnipotence bent in His hand, 

Whose grasp at Creation the universe spanned ; 

'T was the presence of God in a symbol sublime, 

His vow from the flood to the exit of time. 

Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind he pleads, 

When storms are his chariot, and lightning his 

steeds ; 
The black clouds his banners of vengeance unfurled, 
And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world ; 
In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire, 
And seas boil with fury, aud rocks burn with fire, 
When the sword and the plague-spot with death 

strew the plain, 
And vultures and wolves are the graves of the slain. 
Not such was the Rainbow, that beautiful one ! 
Whose arch was refraction, — its keystone the sun ; 
A pavilion it seemed, which the Deity graced, 
And justice and mercy met there and embraced. 
Awhile, — and it sweetly bent over the gloom, 
Like love o'er a death-couch, or hope o'er the tomb ; 



THE GOLDEN GI?T. 



Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired, 
As love had just vanished, or hope had expired. 
I gazed not alone on the source of my song, 
To all who beheld it these verses belong ; 
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord ; 
Each full heart expanded, grew warm, and adored. 
Like a visit, the converse of friends, and a day, 
That bow from my sight passed forever away ; 
Like that visit, that converse, that day, on my 

heart, 
That bow from remembrance can never depart. 
'T is a picture in memory distinctly defined 
With the strong and un perishing coloi-s of mind ; 
A part of my being beyond my control, 
Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul. 



J. Holland. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Wealth not Happiness. 

I have tasted each varied pleasure, 
And drank of the cup of delight ; 

I have danced to the gayest measure, 
In the halls of dazzling light. 

I have dwelt in a blaze of splendor, 

And stood in the court of kings ; 
I have snatched at each toy, that would render 

More rapid the flight of time's wings. 

But vainly I 've sought for joy or peace 

In the life of light and shade ; 
And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home, 

That home where my childhood played. 

When jewels are sparkling round me, 

And dazzling with their rays, 
I weep for ties that hound me 

In life's first early days. 

I sigh for one of the sunny hours, 

Ere day was turned to night ; 
For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers, 

Instead of those jewels bright. 

Mrs. Norton. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



To Harriet B , two years of age. 

Sweet little girl ! thy 'witching smile 
That beams so pure and bright ; 

Thy merry playfulness, betokes 
Thy innocent delight 

Such loveliness ! I know not which 
Our hearts would soonest win, 

The pearls within thy little mouth, 
Or dimples in thy chin. 

Thy little hands, so pure and white, 

So cunningly the test ; 
So young, and yet thou knowest well, 

The ones that love thee best. 

May future years still give to thee 

A clear unclouded brow ; 
And innocence and loveliness, 

Be with thee, then as now. 

J. M. F. 



THE G0LDE3J GIFT. 



Sunset. 

The sun sinks broadly in the west ; 

And fainter as his radiance glows, 
Scarce heeded falls o'er nature's breast 

The languor of a soft repose. 
Each breeze is hushed, — each leaf is still, — 

The wild bird pours his song no more ; 
And gliding round yon graceful hill, 

The meek stream laves the silent shore. 

Oh, vain as fair, thou fleeting light ! 

Who now may in thy charms confide ? 
So shine earth's pageants, false and bright, 

And pass like sails on ocean's tide. 
In swift succession onward go 

To live and fail, — day after day ; 
Thus human joys deceitful glow, 

And fade like waning light away. 

I ; ve wandered oft amid these bowers, 

And heard sweet notes from every bough ; 
And quaffed their fragrance from the flowers, 

"Where all is sad and silent now. 
But those in ruddy morning's smile 

Shall live and bloom as bright again ; 
I, constant in my grief the while, 

I, gloom unchanged alone remain. E. F. Ellet. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 37 



Hearts we Love. 

They talk of homes amid the wild, 

And fancy decks them forth 
With every charm that ever smiled 

To beautify the earth ; 
Yet sure I am the purest flame 

E'er humau heart did move, 
Is that sweet light that burneth bright 

In happy hearts we love. 

The sailor sails upon the sea ; 

His heart, his home is there ; 
The spirit's veriest witchery ' 

Comes in that spot and air ; 
He proud will roam and dare the foam, 
And all its wonders prove, 

Yet sure we are no rest is there 
Like that in hearts we love. 

And one will fmd his home in fame, 

Another in his gain, 
And some despise a glorious name 

And riot in the mean ; 
With different mind they each will find 

A joy, a thing to move ; 
And such it is, but not the bliss 

That fives in hearts we love. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT, 



And some have thought the martyr's crown, 

So full of glories bright, 
Had joys, from its fire circlet won, 

To thrill with wild delight ; 
Such will receive. — such crown will give 

A joy like that above, 
Yet nothing sure than bliss more pure 

That burns in hearts we love. 

Others have thought the poet's fire 

Unearthly pleasure has, 
And light there is around his lyre 

That doth in heaven blaze ; 
He strikes the string, his numbers ring, 

Rapt is his soul above ; 
And yet his bliss is not like this 

Found in the hearts we love. 

When morning comes we go abroad 

Upon the vernal earth, 
And feel the very breath of God 

Is in its shouting mirth ; 
The heart 's not still, with wildest thrill 

Its living pulses move, 
Yet comes there not with all this thought 

The bliss of hearts we love. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The warrior dares the angry path 

Where death-doomed surges swell ' r 
The madness of its awful wrath 

He seeks, — it pleases well ; 
Tet go to him when stars burn dim 

O'er those life late did move ; 
Ask if his pleasure has that large measure 

Poured from the hearts we love. 

Then give me one in which my own 

Shall ever centred be, 
And I will spurn the monarch's throne, — 

The richer man than he ; 
There 's not o'er all this earthly ball 

One joy like this to move, — 
A happy heart that dwells apart, 

And lives in our own love. 



W. T. Bacon. 



40 THE GOLDEN GIF*. 



Memories of Youth. 

As the lengthened train of years shall Toll, 

And forever pass away, 
The glad thoughts of youth shall hold my soul 

In their everlasting sway. 

Though my eyes should lose their sense of sight, 
And my limbs should lose their power, 

Yet I 'd think of airy visions bright, 
Which were dreamed in youth's glad hour. 

Should the years of manhood o'er me fling 

A dark veil of toil and care, 
Yet around my youth my thoughts would cling, 

And most fondly cluster there. 

Whe; t>way from this, my native soil, 

I shall roam in distant lands, 
Then around my soul youth's ties shall coil, — 

Those most pure and sacred bands. 

When the forms of grim disease and pain 
Shall distract my weakened powers, 

My exhausted spirit then will fain 
Once recur to youthful hours. 

J. R. Dodqe. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 41 



Congenial Spirits. 

Oh ! in all the varied scenes of life, 

Is there a joy so sweet, 
As when, amid its busy strife, 

Congenial spirits meet 1 

Feelings and thoughts, — a fairy hand, 
Long hid from mortal sight, 

Then start to meet the master hand 
That calls them forth to light. 

When turning o'er some gifted page, 

How fondly do we pause, 
That dear companion to engage 

In answering applause. 

And when we list to music's sigh, 

How sweet at every tone, 
To read within another's eyes 

The raptures of our own ! 

To share together waking dreams, 

Apart from sordid men, 
Or speak on high and lofty themes, 

Beyond the worldling's ken. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



These are moat dear, but soon shall pass 

That summons of the heart ; 
Congenial spirits, soon, alas ! 

Are ever doomed to part. 

Yet those to whom such grief is given, 

Mourn not thy lot of woe ; 
Say, can a wandering light from heaven 

E'er sparkle long below ? 

Earth would be all too bright, — too blest, 

With such pure ties of love ; 
Let kindred spirits hope to rest 

Save in a rest above. 

Nashua Oasis. 




THE GOLDEN GIFT. 43 



The World as it is. 

The -world is not so bad a world 

As some would like to make it ; 
Though whether good, or whether bad, 

Depends on how we take it. 
For if we scold and fret all day, 

From dewy morn till even, 
This world will ne'er afford to man 

A foretaste here of heaven. 

This world in truth 's as good a world 

As e'er was known to any 
Who have not seen another yet, 

And these are very many ; 
And if the men, and women, too, 

Have plenty of employment, 
Those surely must be hard to pleaso 

Who cannot find enjoyment. 

This world is quite a clever world, 

In rain or pleasant weather, 
If people would but learn to live 

In harmony together ; 
Nor seek to burst the kindly bond 

By love and peace cemented, 
And learn the best of lessons yet, 

To always be contented. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT . 

Then were the world a pleasant world, 

And pleasant folks were in it, 
The day would pass most pleasantly 

To those who thus begin it ; 
And all the nameless grievances 

Brought on by borrowed troubles, 
Would prove, as certainly they are, 

A mass of empty bubbles. 



The WiH. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

It rises in my breast, 
Serene and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

I fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know ere long, 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 

Longfellow. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 45 



My Mountain Home. 

I love my own clear mountain home, 
And o'er its hills I love to roam 

To view each varied scene ; 
The gurgling rill and waters bright 
As forth they pour from mountain height, 

And woods all glad with green. 

And I a walk delight to take 
At times beside the limpid lake 

To view the birds around ; 
To hear them chant their joyful lay 
Upon some lone deserted spray 

Just by the margin found. 

And when the sun sinks in the west, 
And weary nature seems to rest, 

It gladdens me to hear 
The nightingale's loud, thrilling songs, 
While she her music oft pi-olongs, 

Until the stars appear. 

And then as sinks the morning star, 
To hear the cuckoo from afar 
Commence her gladsome lay j 






THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

And with the lark, in notes of glee, 
With spirit pure and ever free 
To usher in the day. 

Ah, yes ! I love my mountain home, 
And o'er its hills I love to roam 

To seek the flow'rets fair ; 
The daisy and the evergreen 
Beside the primrose oft are seen 

To yield their fragrance there. Anon. 



True Friendship. 

There are some spirits fitly strung, 
To echo back the tones of mine ; 

And those few, cherished souls amoDg, 
I dare, dear friend, to number thine. 

Angels attend thee ; may their wings 
Fan every shadow from thy brow ; 

For only bright and loving things 
Should wait on one so good as thou. 

And when my prayers are pure and strong, 
As they in my best hours can be, 

Amid my loved and cherished throng, 
I then will count, and pray for thee. 

G. G. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 47 



Forget me Not. 

There is a flower, a lovely flower, 

Tinged deep with Faith's unchanging hue, 
Pure as the ether in its hour 

Of loveliest and serenest blue. 
The streamlet's gentle side it seeks, 

The silent fount, the shaded grot, 
And sweetly to the heart it speaks, 

Forget me not, forget me not ! 

Mild as the azure of thine eyes, 

Soft as the halo-beam above, 
In tender whispers still it sighs, 

Forget me not, my life, my love ! 
There where thy lost steps turned away, 

Wet eyes shall watch the sacred spot, 
And this sweet flower be heard to say, 

Forget ! ah, no ! forget me not. 

Yet deep its azure leaves within, 

Is seen the blighting hue of care ! 
And what that secret grief hath been, 

The drooping stem may well declare. 
The dew-drops on its leaves are tears, 

That ask " Am I so soon forgot ? " 
Repeating still amidst their fears, 

My life, my love ! forget me not ! 

From tlie German, by F. Haixeck. 



48 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Tlie Merry Heart. 

I would not from the wise require 

The lumber of their learned lore ; 
Nor would I from the rich desire 

A single counter of their store. 
For I have ease, and I have health, 

And I have spirits, light as air ; 
And more than wisdom, more than wealth, 

A merry heart that laughs at care. 

Like other mortals of my kind, 

I 've struggled for dame Fortune's favor ; 
And sometimes have been half inclined 

To rate her for her ill behavior. 
But life was short, — I thought it folly 

To lose its moments in despair ; 
So slipp'd aside from melancholy. 

With merry heart, that laughed at care. 

And once, 't is true, two 'witching eyes 

Surprised me in a luckless season ; 
Turn'd all my niirth to lonely sighs, 

And quite subdued my better reason. 
Yet 't was but love could make me grieve, 

And love, you know 's a reason fair ; 
And much improved, as I believe, 

The merry heart that laughed at care. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

So now from idle wishes clear ,- 

I make the good I may not find : 
Adown the stream T gently steer, 

And shift my sail with every wind. 
And half by nature, half by reason, 

Can still with pliant heart prepare, 
The mind, attuned to every season, 

The merry heart, that laughs at care. 

Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, 

Ye social feelings of the mind ; 
Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam, 

And let the rest good humor find. 
Yes, — let me hail and welcome give 

To every joy my lot may share ; 
And pleased and pleasing let me live 

With merry heart, that laughs at care. 



MlLMAN. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Madrigal. 

When Love and Truth together played, 
So cheerful was the shepherd's song ! 

How happy, too, the rural maid ! 
How light the minutes wing'd along ! 

But Love has left the sighing vale, 

And Truth no longer tells her tale. 

Sly stealing, see, from scene to scene, 

The watchful Jealousy appear ; 
And pale Distrust with troubled mien, 

The rolling eye, and list'ning ear ! 
For Love has left the sighing vale, 
And Truth no longer tells her tale. 

Ah ! shall we see no more the hour 
That wafted rapture on its wing ! 

With murmurs shall the riv'let pour, 
That prattled from its crystal spring ? 

Yes, yes, while Love forsakes the vale, 

And Truth no longer tells her tale. 

Wolcot. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 51 



To a Canary Bird. 

Each morn as the bright sun peeps over the trees, 
Thy sweet song is heard as it floats on the breeze ; 
And long as he tarries to brighten the day, 
So long may be heard thy melodious lay. 

If darkness or gloom in my spirit should dwell, 
Thy lay in its sweetness would sever the spell ; 
Oh ! who could be sad, when thy silvery note 
Is flung to the zephyrs that over us float. 

Then sing, sweet canary ! not only for me, 
I know of another that listens to thee ; 
Another whose voice is so much like thine own, — 
Little fellow, I know where you learned that tone. 

Then sing pretty bird, carol forth thy sweet lay ! 
Let it float through the air, and gladden the day ; 
And oft as I hear it, in innocent glee, 
I '11 think of another that listens to thee. 

J. M. F. 



52 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Lines written in a Young Lady's Album. 

I 'd offer thee this heart of mine, 

If I could love thee less ; 
But hearts as warm, as soft as thine, 

Should never know distress. 
My fortune is too hard for thee, 

'T would chill thy dearest joy ; 
I 'd rather weep to see thee free, 

Than win thee to destroy. 

I leave thee in thy happiness, 

As one too rlear to love ! 
As one I '11 think of but to bless, 

Whilst wretchedly I rove. 
But oh ! when sorrow's cup I drink, 

All bitter though it be, 
How sweet to me 't will be to think 

It holds no drop for thee. 

Then fare thee well ; an exile now, 

Without a friend or home, 
With anguish written on my brow, 

About the world I '11 roam. 
For all my dreams are sadly o'er, 

Fate bade them all depart, — 
And I will leave my native shore, 

In brokenness of heart. Anon. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 53 



The Tulip and the Eglantine. 

The Tulip called to the Eglantine, 

" Good neighbor, I hope you see 
How the throngs that visit the gardens come 

And pay their respects to me. 
The florist bows to my elegant form, 

And praises my rainbow ray, 
Till I 'm half afraid throj his raptured eyes 

He '11 be gazing his soul away." 

1 It may be so," said the Eglantine, 

" In a shadier nook I dwell, 
And what is passing among the great 

I cannot know so well ; 
But they speak of me as the flower of love ; 

And that low whispered name 
Is dearer to me and my infant buds, 

Than the loudest breath of fame." 

Mrs. Sigournsy. 



— = =^ies=- 



54 



Mid-summer. 

'T is the summer prime, when the noiseless air 

In perfumed chalice lies, 
And the bee goes by with a lazy hum, 

Beneath the sleeping skies. 
"When the brook is low and the ripples bright, 

As down the stream they go, 
The pebbles are dry on the upper side, 

And dark and wet below. 

The tree that stood when the soil 's athirst, 

And the mulleins first appear, 
Hath a dry and rusty-colored bark, 

And its leaves are curled and sere ; 
But the dogwood and the hazel bush 

Have clustered round the brook, — 
Their roots have stricken deep beneath, 

And they have a verdant look. 

To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings, 

And he gnaws it like a file, 
The naked stalks are withering by, 

Where he has been erewhile. 
The cricket hops on the glistening rock, 

Or pipes in the faded grass. 
The beetle's wings are folded mute, 

When the steps of the idler pass. 

E. 0. Smith. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 56 



By-past Hours. 

Go ! dream of by-past hours : 

In retrospect, once more 
Pluck fancy's gayest flowers, 

And revel in thy store. 
Go, seek thy native cot, 

Scene of affection free, 
Where pleasure cheered thy lot, 

Whero love was all to thee. 

Do this, but never tell 

The heartless world thy dream j 
Its scorn would hope dispel, 

Would crush the fairy theme : 
Do this, but in thy breast 

Let each fond wish expire ; 
For sorrows unrepressed 

Are his who loves the lyre. 



Tappan. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Lost Flower. 



I saw the shining flower 

Turn to the Sun-god's kiss, 
With the graceful resignation 

Of beauty bathed in bliss. 
She followed him from morning, 

O'er the woods and gilded streams, 
Till he sank from sight at evening, 

In the hour of mystic dreams. 

In the night the Frost-king wooed her, 

And though cold was his caress, 
She was dazzled by the splendor 

Of his regal form and dress. 
In his diadem was many a gem, 

And his robe of brilliant dye, 
Flashed through the night, as through the storm 

The rainbow gleams on high. 

Well sped he in his wooing, — 

The virgin flower was lost, 
And her ruin lent new glory 

To the demon -king of Frost. 
Woe to the simple flower ! 

When next the Sun -god came, 
She shrank before his ardent gaze, 

And perished in her shame. 

F. A. Durivagb. 






THE GOLDEN GIFT. Ut 



The Anemone. To . 

I know a gentle flower that blows 
"When winter's chilling winds have fled ; 

And loth its beauty to disclose, 
It often hides its modest head. 

The careless eye may not perceive 
This lowly flower so sweet and fair'; 

Tor me, howe'er, in wood or field, 
None sweeter scents the morning air. 

I meet it on my favorite walk, 
And stop to view its simple charms, 

As bending on its slender stalk 
It trusts to nature's fostering arms. 

This gentle flower, whose modest grace 

So oft has been a boon to me, 
Though missed among more showy plants, 

I often have compared to thee. 

Anon. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Flowers. 

Each leaflet is a tiny scroll 

Inscribed with holy truth, 
A lesson that around the heart 

Should keep the dew of youth ; 
Bright missiles from angelic throngs, 

In every by-way left, 
How were the earth of glory shorn 

Were it of flowers bereft ! 

They tremble on the alpine heights, 

The fissured rock they press, 
The desert wild, with heat and sand, 

Shares too their blessedness ; 
And whereso'er the weary heart 

Turns in its dim despair, 
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, 

Inviting it to prayer. 

E. 0. Smtih. 



E GOLDEN GIFT. 



Mutability. 

The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay, 

Tempts, and then flies : 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship too rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 

Whilst flowers are gay, 
Whilst eyes that change ere night, 

Make glad the day ; 
Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 
Dream thou,— and from thy sleep 
Then wake to weep. 

Shelly. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT, 



Mother, Home and Heaven. 

The sounds that fall on mortal ear 

As dew drops pure at even, 
That soothe the breast or start the tear, 

Are Mother, Home and Heaven. 

A Mother, — sweetest name on earth ! 

We lisp it on the knee, 
And idolize its sacred worth 

In manhood's infancy. 

A Home, — that paradise below, 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Where hallowed joys perennial flow, 

By calm sequestered bowers. 

And Heaven, — the port of endless peace, 

The haven of the soul, 
When life's corroding cares shall cease 

Like sweeping waves to roll. 

Oh ! weep not, then, though cruel time 

The chain of love has riven ; 
To every link, in yonder clime, • 

Re-union shall be given. 

Oh ! fall they not on mortal ear 

As dew drops pure at even, 
To soothe the breast or start the tear, — 

A Mother, Home and Heaven ? 

Anon. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 61 



The Departed. 

The departed ! the departed ! 

They visit us in dreams, 
And they glide above our memories 

Like shadows over streams ; 
But where the cheerful lights of home 

In constant lustre burn, 
The departed, — the departed 

Can never more return ! 

The good, the brave, the beautiful ! 

How dreamless is their sleep, 
Where rolls the dirge-like music 

Of the ever-tossing deep, — 
Or where the hurrying night-winds, 

Pale winter's robes have spread 
Above the narrow palaces, 

In the cities of the dead ! 

I look around and feel the awe 

Of one who walks alone, — 
Among the wrecks of former days, 

In mournful ruin strewn. 
I start to hear the stirring sounds 

Among the cypress trees ; 
For the voice of the departed 

Is borne upon the breeze. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

That solemn voice ! it mingles with 

Each free and careless strain ; 
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy 

Will cheer my heart again. 
The melody of summer waves, 

The thrilling notes of birds, 
Can never be so dear to me, 

As their remembered words. 

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles 

Still on me sweetly fall ! 
Their tones of love I faintly hear 

My name in sadness call. 
I know £hat they are happy, 

With their angel plumage on ■ 
But my heart is very desolate 

To think that they are gone 

The departed ! the departed ! 

They visit us in dreams, 
And they glide above our memories, 

Like shadows over streams , 
But where the cheerful lights of home 

In constant lustre burn, 
The departed, — the departed 

Can never more return ! 

Park Benjamin. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Motherless. 

I never knew what 't was to have 

A mother kind and good, 
To cheer me when I would be grave 

And chide me when I 'm rude ; 
I never felt upon my cheek 

Her soft and gentle kiss, 
And never, never heard her speak 

In tones of tenderness. 

She never comes at morning light, 

To hear my waking sound, 
Nor, when I lay me down at night, 

To close the curtains round. 
She is not near me when I play 

Amid the open air, 
Nor when I kneel me down to pray 

Beside my little chair. 

I 'm sure that I would like to sit 

All day beside her seat, 
And watch her fingers, as they knife 

A stocking for my feet. 
And then, perhaps she 'd read to me 

From out some pretty book, — 
I 'm sure I should be full of glee 

To see her pleasant look. 



64 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

I see the other girls around 

A mother's fondness prove, 
But I have never heard the sound 

Of a fond mother's love. 
I cannot think what I have done, — 

I 've always spoken true, — 
Why can't I with the others run 

And kiss a mother too ? 

In yonder quiet burial ground, — 

Just by that willow tree, — 
There riseth up as green a mound 

As you could wish to see. 
A tall white stone is at its head, 

A small one at the foot, 
And violets and roses red 

And pinks have there been put 

One day I wandered there alone, 

I know not how or why, 
And leaned against that tallest stone, 

'T was twice as tall as I. 
Some letters were upon its face ; 

I saw them as I stood, 
And thought it would be nice to trace 

Their meaning, if I could. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 65 

A little silver pen I had, — 

My teacher's premium, — 
She gave it me when I -was sad 

And crying o'er a sum. 
Then spelled I with my silver pen 

The words " In Memory ; " 
Then came a little " of " and then 

My own name, " Mary Lee ! " 

I put my hand upon my head 

To think what it could mean, — 
I knew I never had been dead 

And come to life again. 
'T was long before I understood 

The words which I had read, 
And then an overwhelming flood 

Of burning tears I shed. 

Now daily when the sun hath gone^ 

And from my task I 'm free, 
I wander there and sit alone 

Beneath the willow tree. 
With many tears amid my prayer, 

That. tall white stone I lave, 
Tor I suppose it rises there 

To mark my mother's grave. 

J. L. Chester. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Harmony of Mature. 

There is a soothing harmony 

Among the whispering trees, 
There is a joyous melody, 

Which floats upon the breeze. 

It comes to us from every spray, 
Where the jocund songsters sing ; 

We feel it where the insects play, 
And midst the flowers of spring. 

The gentle cooing of the dove 

Has power to lull to rest, 
The yearnings after human love, 

Which fill the human breast. 

The soaring lark's triumphant song 

Raises our hearts on high ; 
And while we gaze on him, we long 

For heavenly melody. 

Can we behold earth's mantle green, 

And the blue sky above, 
And not confess, midst every scene, 

The Lord our God is love ! 

Anon. 



E GOLDEN GIFT. 67 



The Heart's Guests. 

When age has cast its shadows 

O'er life's declining way, 
When evening twilight gathers 

Round our retiring day, — 
Then shall we sit and ponder 

On the dim and shadowy past, 
In the heart's silent chamber, 

The guests will gather fast 

Guests that in youth we cherished, 

Shall come to us once more, 
And we shall hold communion 

As in the days before. 
They may be dark and sombre, 

They may be bright and fair, 
But the heart will have its chamber, 

The guests will gather there. 

How shall it be, my sisters ? 

Who shall be our hearts' guests ? 
How shall it be, my brothers, 

When life's shadow on us rests ? 
Shall we not 'mid the silence 

Hear voices sweet and low, 
Speak the old familiar language, 

The words of long ago ? 



I 

! 
I 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Shall we not see dear faces 

Sweet smiling as of old, 
Till the mists of that lone chamber 

Are sunset clouds of gold, 
When age has cast its shadows 

O'er life's declining way, 
And evening twilight gathers 

Round our retiring day ? 

Mrs. Orne. 



On a Tear. 

'. that the chemist's magic art 

Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 

Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 

Then, trembling, left its coral cell, — 
The spring of Sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 

In thee the rays of virtue shine, — 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 

Than any gem that gilds the mine. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Benign restorer of the soul ! 

Who ever fliest to bring relief, 
When first we feel the rude control 

Of love or pity, joy or grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 
In every clime, — in every age ; 

Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream 
In reason's philosophic page. 

That very law which moulds a tear, 
And bids it trickle from its source, 

That law preserves the earth a sphere, 
And guides the planets in their course. 




70 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Moon. 

The moon is sailing o'er the sky, 

But lonely all, as if she pined 
For somewhat of companionship, 

And felt it were in vain she shined. 

Earth is her miiTor, and the stars 
Are as the court around her throne ; 

She is a beauty and a queen, — 
But what is this ? she is alone ! 

Is there not one, — not one, — to share 

Thy glorious royalty on high ? 
I cannot choose but pity thee, 

Thou lonely orphan of the sky. 

I 'd rather be the meanest flower 
That grows, my mother earth, on thee, 

So there were others of my kin, 
To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me. 

Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death ; 

But with these better could I bear, 
Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere, 

And be a solitary there. 

Landon. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 71 



Unseen Spirits. 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 
'T was near the twilight tide, — 

And slowly there a lady fair 
"Was walking in her pride. 

Alone walked she ; but viewlessly, 
Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 

And Honor charm 'd the air ; 
And all astir look'd kind on her, 

And call'd her good as fair, — 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true, — 

For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
And the rich came not to woo, — 

But honor'd well are charms to sell, 
If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair, — 

A slight girl, lily pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail, — 



72 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



'Twixt "Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, 
And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray ; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Her woman's heart gave way ! 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven, 
By man is cursed alway. 

N. P. Willis. 




THE GOLDEN GIFT. 73 



The Pilgrim Fathers. 

The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er, 
Still roll in the bay and throw their spray, 

As they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 

When the May-Flower * moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the waves with snow. 

The mists that wrapt the pilgrim's sleep, 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone, 
As an angel's wing through an opening cloud 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! 

The hill whose icy brow 
Rejoiced when he came in the morning'* flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now ; 



* The May-Flower was the name of the ship in which 
the pilgrims came over. 



74 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

And the moon's cold bright as it lay that night, 

On the hill side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head 

But the pilgrim, — where is he? 

The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 

When summer 's throned on high, 
And the world's wa-rm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go stand on the hill where they he, — 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The pilgrim spirit has not yet fled, 

It walks in noon's broad light, 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead 

With the holy stars by night ; 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay where the May-Flower 
lay 

Shall foam and freeze no more. 

PlERPONT. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 75 



A Poet's Epitaph. 

Stop, mortal ! here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the poor, 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant and the slave, 
The street, the factory, the jail. 

The palace and the grave ! 

Sin met thy brother every where ! 

And is thy brother blamed ? 
From passion, danger, doubt and care, 

He no exemption claim'd. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 

He blessed the steward whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder'd labor's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare, — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 

Elliott. 



76 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Costliest Gift. 

The everlasting hills 
Rear their cold crested summits to the sky, 
While in their hidden chambers treasures lie, 
Brighter than e'er shall dazzle mortal eye, 

Pour from their golden rills. 

No ! — from our best beloved 
Put far the gross, the treacherous, sensual thing ' f 
Dimmed by the moth from off his wing, — 
Slackening the soul-harp's most melodious string, 

False hath the glittcrer proved. 

The diamond-lighted grot 
Of deep Golconda hath a blazing store ; 
And ocean cells with glorious gems run o'er, 
Till coral coffers can contain no more, 

Bid them pour largely out. 

No ! no ! — affection's debt 
Can ne'er be cancelled by a boon like this. 
Pride, in its strong tumultuous excess, 
Or passion's favor may in such find bliss : 

Love must search deeper yet ! 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 77 

Bring then the holy flowers, — 
The subtlest spell Omnipotence hath wrought, — 
The truest autographs of worldless thought, — 
Ever with blessing and wild worship sought : 

Yes, — bring the sacred flowers. 

No ! — they are pure and fair, 
And meet on friendship's altar stone to lay : 
But oh ! their glory hath a swift decay 
Before the storm-breath, or the sun ; s fierce ray 

Hurled through the fragrant air. 

Search not the generous earth : 
Rob not her bosom of its cherished things, — 
Nor take the morning's blue and golden wings 
To drain full goblets from ethereal springs ; 

These have but dying worth. 

Hath love no more to give ? 
No greener garland for its idol's fane ? 
Are there no lodgings crushed to earth again ? 
No great aspirings, clogged by care and pain, 

Whose chains its hand may cleave ? 

Give, then, to overbear 
Folly, temptation, weakness, fear and sin, 
Give from a nectary that lies deep within, 
What life and medicine to thy soul hath been ; 

Give " helping tears " and prayer. 



B THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Unfold the glorious way 
Which spirits of an immortal name hare trod, — 
Who scorned to grovel for a worthless clod, 
But claimed their lineal parentage in God, — 

Linked lovingly to clay. 

Light to regain the track, 
(Lost for a while 'mid those that downward tend,) 
Strength to press onward, bravely onward, lend 
Till Hope and Faith triumphantly shall blend, 

Ne'er to turn faltering back ! 

Oh ! 't is a nobler thing, 
One earth-wrought bond from off a soul to break, 
One godlike longing in its depths to wake, 
One darkening cloud from off its glance to take, 

Than wealth of worlds to bring ! 

S. H. Browne. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 79 



The Broken Heart. 

Now lock my chamber-door, father, 

And say you left me sleeping ; 
But never tell my step-mother, 

Of all this bitter weeping. 
No earthly sleep can ease my heart, 

Or even awhile reprieve it ; 
For there 's a pang at my young heart 

That never more can leave it ! 

Oh ! let me lie and weep my fill 

O'er wounds that heal can never ; 
And 0, kind Heaven ! were it thy will, 

To close these eyes for ever ; 
For how can maid's affections dear 

Recall her love forsaken ? 
Or how can heart of maiden bear 

To know that heart forsaken ? 

Oh ! why should vows so fondly made, 

Be broken ere the morrow, — 
To one who loved as never maid 

Loved in this world of sorrow ! 
The look of scorn I cannot brave, 

Nor pity's eye more dreary ; 
A quiet sleep within the grave 

Is all for which I weary ! 



80 



(OLDEN GIFT. 



Farewell, dear Yorrow's mountains green, 

And banks of broom so yellow ! 
Too happy has this bosom been 

Within your arbors mellow. 
That happiness is fled for aye, 

And all is dark desponding, — 
Save in the opening gates of day, 

And the dear home beyond them ! 

IIOGG. 




THE GOLDEN GIFT. 81 



Farewell ! 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For others' weal avail 'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, — 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word, — Farewell ! Farewell 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
I only know we loved in vain, — 

I only feel, — Farewell ! Farewell.,! 

Byeon. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Life. 

A boat lay on the summer sea, 

The light waves round it leaping ; 
While laughing sunbeams, bright and free, 

Played o'er an infant sleeping ; 
And far away, that bark in glee 

Was o'er the bright deep straying ; 
While all around the dimpling sea 

With zephyrs soft was playing. 

Oh ! it was sweet around that child 

To see the ripples dancing, 
And o'er its brow so soft and mild 

The sunbeams brightly glancing ; 
And then I prayed that naught might break 

The angel spell that bound it, 
Or from its dreams the spirit wake 

That played so soft around it. 

But when far off upon the sky 

I saw the tempest lower, 
A mournful tear bedimmed mine eye 

For that unconscious flower ; 
For still that bark rocked gay and light, 

The rosy hours beguiling, 
And still within, as fair and bright, 

That infant form lay smiling. 



THE GOLDEN QIFT. 83 

I turned away ; for who could see 

That child awake to sorrow ? 
The brightest smile so swiftly flee 

That Earth from Heaven may borrow ? 
For well I knew the angry wave 

Would soon in wrath surround it, 
And make its wild and lonely grave 

Mid ocean-weeds that bound it. 

Ah ! thus, methought, on life's bright tide 

We make our youthful pillow, 
And gaily o'er its waters glide, 

From billow on to billow ; 
But oh ! too soon the angry storm 

Blots out each vision brightest ; 
And oft, alas ! it wraps the form 

In which the heart beats lightest. 

J. T. Headlet. 



84 TH£ GOLDEN GIFT, 



The Floweret. 

I marked, when the morning sun shone bright, 
Where a floweret in beauty grew ; 

Its petals oped to the rosy light, 
As it laughed in the sparkling dew ! 

And a grateful fragrance the blossom flung 

To the sportive winds that play ; 
While o'er it a raptured wild bird hung, 

And carolled his love-taught lay. 

I came again, when an hour had flown, 

And sought for my floweret fair ; 
All vain, alas, for the blossom was gone, 

And sad was the silent air ! 

1 mourned when I thought on its radiant hue, 
And remembered its look of pride ; 

I bowed me in grief where its beauty grew, 
And wept where my floweret died. 

Then I turned my gaze to the azure sky, 

And thought on the God above, 
Who heareth the hungry raven's cry, 

And whose holiest name is Love. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 85 ! 

And I dried my tears, as my fancy roved 

To the realm by angels trod ; 
For I knew that the blossom from earth removed, 

Bloomed bright in the gardens of God ! 

Oh ! ye, •who have watched o'er its fragrant birth 

As it oped to the balmy day, 
Weep not that no longer it smileth on earth, 

To gladden your weary way. 

No more shall ye fear for the morning's blight, 

Nor dread the cold chills of even ; 
For afar, in a realm of celestial light, 

Your floweret is blooming in heaven. 

C. "W. Everest 




THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Is it not Sweet. 

la it not sweet to think, hereafter, 

When the spirit leaves this sphere, 
Love, with deathless wings, shall waft her 

To those she long hath mourn'd for here ? 
Hearts, from which 't was death to sever, 

Eyes, this world can ne'er restore, 
There, as warm, as bright as ever, 

Shall meet us and be lost no more. 

When wearily we wander, asking 

Of earth and heaven, where are they, 
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, — 

Blest and thinking bliss would stay ! 
Hope still lifts her radiant finger, 

Pointing to the eternal home, 
Upon whose portal yet they linger, 

Looking back for us to come. 

Alas ! alas ! doth Hope deceive us ? 

Shall friendship, — love, — shall all those ties 
That bind a moment, and then leave us, 

Be found again where nothing dies ? 
Oh ! if no other boon were given, 

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, 
Who would not try to win a heaven 

Where all we love shall live again ? 

T. Mooee. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 87 



Wishes. 

Oh ! give me back the sunny smile 

Of childhood's happy days, 
Ere my unwearied feet had learned, 

To tread life's wildering maze. 
Yes, give me back that smile of joy, 
That sinless smile without alloy. 

And once again, oh ! give me back 

My happy, careless heart, — 
A heart which never had been pierced, 

By sin's envenomed dart ; 
A heart untainted, free from sin, 
And sweet untroubled peace within. 

'T is vain ! such wishes all are vain ! 

Those days can come no more ! 
They 've passed adown time's rolling wave, 

To dark oblivion's shore. 
Though past, in memory still they dwell, 
And cheer me with their magic spell. 

Those smiles so sweet, can ne'er again 

Illume with radiance bright, 
The heart which once no sorrow knew, 

Can never more be light. 
No ! life's bright morning sun has passed, 
And o'er my brow a shade has cast. 

Olive Branch. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



He is thy brother yet. 

What though his erring feet 

Have stumbled in the way, 
And in a thoughtless hour 

lie has been led astray ; 
The great Creator's seal 

Upon his brow is set, 
And fallen though he be, 

He is thy brother yet. 

Look with a tender eye 

Upon that clouded brow, 
And win him if you can 

To paths of -virtue now ; 
But oh ! forbear to bend 

Thy cold and distant gaze 
Upon thy early friend, 

The loved of other days. 

Will not the happy hours 

That blessed your younger years, 
When he was by thy side 

In mirthfulness and tears, — 
Will not the thought of these 

Within thy heart beget 
A sad, yet sweet response, 

He is my brother yet ? 



THE GOLDEN GIFT, 



And when in later life, 

Where science holds her sway, 
You travel'd hand in hand 

The devious, winding way, 
Until hidden mines 

Of rich mysterious lore 
Had paid you for the ease 

You bartered, to explore. 

Behold the path of fame 

That opens to your view, 
And tremble when you tread 

Its giddy mazes too ; 
And if you do not ask, 

Some higher power to guide 
Your ever varying bark, 

As on the storm you ride, — 

That proud majestic step, 

And lofty soul of thine, 
May all be made to bow, 

To dark misfortune's shrine ; 
And then, when trials come, 

You never will regret 
You owned the wayward one 

To be thy brother yet. 

J. L. BUFFOED. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Whene'er I see. 

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, 

All filled with hope, and joy, and light, 
As if no cloud could ever rise, 

To dim a heaven so purely bright, — 
I sigh to think how soon that brow 

In grief may lose its every ray, 
And that light heart, so joyous now, 

Almost forget it once was gay. 

For time will come with all his blights, 

The ruin'd hope, — the friend unkind, — 
The love that leaves, where'er it lights, 

A chill or burning heart behind ! 
While youth, that now like snow appears, 

Ere sullied by the darkening rain, 
When once 't is touch'd by sorrow's tears, 

Will never shine so bright again. 

T. Mooee. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 91 



Rely on Right. 

If sorrow come, resist it not, 

Nor yet bow weakly to it ; 
Look up to meet the heaven-sent storm, 

But see the rainbow through it. 

And seek not bliss on airy heights, 
Whose dizzy power doth rally ; 

The fragrant little hearts-ease lights 
The lowliest, humblest valley. 

The gem that clasps a royal robe, 
The worldling's eye may dazzle, 

But love will light his glow-worm lamp 
In cot as well as castle. 

If comes a blow from friend or foe, 
With earnest good avenge it ; 
" The sandal-tree, with fragrant sigh, 
Perfumes the axe that rends it." 

Be like the sun, whose eye of joy 

Ne'er on a shadow lay, love ; 
Be like a rill that singeth still, 

Whate'er be in its way, love. 

If once a purpose pure and high 
You form, for naught forego it ; 
" The mulberry leaf to silk is changed, 
By patience," says the poet. 

Mrs. Osgood. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Go Forward. 

Go forward, — press onward, — 

'T is wiser by far, 
Than moping and sighing 

In fear where you are ; 
Whatever your calling, 

Your aim or pursuit, 
In hand with true Wisdom, 

You '11 bear precious fruit. 

A Putnam and Warren, 

What made them to be 
Remembered forever 

By the good and the free ? 
'T was active exertion, — 

Indomitable zeal, — 
And minds that were tempered 

With wisdom and steel. 

A Franklin and Davy, 

A Fulton and Watt, 
Like thousands that perished 

Would now be forgot ; 
By active exertion, 

And a diligent mind, 
They left, ne'er to perish, 

A glory behind. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Go forward, — press onward, — 

Oh, live not in Tain, — 
There 's wisdom and honor, 

And glory to gain ; 
The path is before you, 

You 've only to choose ; 
You win, if you 're active. — 

If slothful, you lose. 

Go forward, — press onward, — 

A moment's delay 
May thicken the shadows 

That rise o'er your way ; 
This waiting and wasting 

The summers that fly, 
Will leave you a sluggard, 

To linger and die. 

D. C. COLESWOETHlf. 



94 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Lines on the death of Charles J. Fox, Esq., 

OP NASHVILLE, N. H. 

The scholar's brilliant light is dim, 

And on his brow Death's signet set ; 
Oh ! many an eye that welcomed him, 

"With sorrow's burning tear is wet ; 
His was a noble heart and true, — 

His was the strong and gifted mind ; 
And Fame and Love around him threw 

Their wreaths, with choicest flowers entwined. 

His mind lay like a gem within 

A fretted and a slender frame, 
Which oft it buoyed to health again, 

Unknowing whence the healing came. 
The jewel through the casket frail, 

Shone with a clear and perfect ray, 
As if its light would never pale 

Before e'en Death's triumphant sway. 

He wore away, — no lovelier clime 

With fairy scenes and gentle breeze, — 
The grandeur of the ocean chime, 

Italia's skies nor India's seas, — 
Not these could brace his wasting frame, — 

Nor home with all its memories dear, — 
But calmly, when the summons came, 

His soul soared to a brighter sphere. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 95 

His was the scholar's gentleness, — 

" The faculty and power divine," — 
Which leave on all their strong impress, 

And glow in every thought and line. 
Truth found in him a champion, 

Clad in her armor burnished bright, — 
And error's clouds sank one by one, 

Before his clear, serener light. 

His was the Christian's holiness, — 

Whose beautiful and placid ray 
Beam'd on his soul, its flight to bless 

Along its bright, celestial way, — 
Undimmed in life's long last eclipse, 

When Love its midnight vigils kept, — 
When press'd to his her pale, pale lips, 

And gentle eyes above him wept. 

Tread lightly where the scholar sleeps, 

Within his cold and narrow bed, 
For one her bridal vigils keeps, 

Above the wept and sainted dead. 
Tread lightly by his rural tomb, — 

And o'er it plant the gentle flowers, 
Sweet symbols of his spirit's bloom 

In a far brighter land than ours. 

J. H. Warland. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Life Clock. 

There is a little mystic clock 

No human eye hath seen, 
That beateth on and beateth on 

From morning until e'en. 

And -when the soul is wrapped in sleep. 

And heareth not a sound, 
It ticks and ticks the livelong night, 

And never runneth down. 

Oh ! wondrous is that work of art 
Which knells the passing hour ; 

But art ne'er formed or mind conceived 
This life clock's magic power. 

Nor set in gold, nor decked with gems, 
By wealth and pride possessed, 

But rich or poor, or high or low, 
Each bears it in his breast. 

When life's deep stream mid beds of flowers 

All still and softly glides ; 
Like the wavelet's step, with a gentle beat, 

It warns of passing tides. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 97 



When threat'ning darkness gathers o'er, 

And hope's bright visions flee, 
Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar, 

It beateth heavily. 

When passion nerves the warrior's arm 

For deeds of hate and wrong, 
Though heeded not the fearful sound, 

Its knell is deep and strong. 

When eyes to eyes are gazing soft, 

And tender words are spoken, 
Then fast and wild it rattles on, 

As if with love 't were broken. 

Such is the clock that measures life, 

Of flesh and spirit blended, 
And thus 't will run within the heart 

Till that strange tie is ended. 

Anon. 



-^=m=^~ 



dS THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



It is not always May. 

The sun is bright, the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where waiting till the west wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor he. 

All things are new, — the buds, the leaves 
That gild the elm tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath tbe eaves ; 
There are no birds in last year's nest. 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fullness of their first delight ; 

And learn from the soft heavens above, 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden ! that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, — it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of th.7 prime, 
For oh ! it is not always May ! 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Enjoy the spring of love and youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For time will teach thee soon the truth, 

There are no birds in last year's nest. 

Longfellow. 
The Kettle. 

'Neath the -willow's golden plumes, 

On a little mossy seat, 
Where the snow-white violet blooms, 

Where the air is cool and sweet, — 

Here, reposing, full of dreams, 

I the vernal noontide spent, 
Watching how, in fitful gleams, 

Sunbeams came, and shadows went. 

Broken were my dreams, ere long, 
By a low and mournful sound ; 

'T was the Nettle's plaintive song, 
Uttered to the flowers around. 

" Sorrows are the common lot ; 

Where, on all this fair green earth, 

Lives the soul that bears them not, — 

Has not borne them from its birth ? 



100 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

u But of all that live in woe. 
None so wretched, half, as I ; 
Wherefore has God made me so, 
Save to curse his name, and die ? 

" Not a child with sweet caress 
E'er salutes me in its play, 
But with terror and distress 
I the gentle deed repay. 

" Not a maiden near me springs, 
In her wild and careless sport, 
But with subtle poisonous stings, 
I the playful touch retort. 

" So, repulsing all I love, 

Giving pain where I would bless, 
Who can blame me, if I prove 
Impious in my wretchedness ? " 

M Nay," I whispered in reply, 

" Question not the love of Heaven ; 
But, with courage firm and high, 
Bear whate'er of ill is given. 

" Human spirits, cursed like thee, 
Have a more unpitied lot ; 
Thy repulse can freely be, 
And it always is, forgot. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



101 



"But the 'wretched soul, that darts 
Passion-fire at every touch, 
Wounding loved and loving hearts, 
Suffers wrongfully and much. 

" None his hasty speech forgives, 
None suspects his mental strife ; 
Thanks to Heaven, one Being lives 
Who can judge the inward life." 



S. C. Edgastok. 




102 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



"Weep for yourselves, and for your 
Children." 

We mourn for those who toil, 

The slave who ploughs the main, 
Or him who helpless tills the soil 

Beneath the stripe and chain ; 
For those who in the world's hard race 

O'erwearied and unblest, 
A host of restless phantoms chase, — 

Why mourn for those who rest ? 

We mourn for those who sin, 

Bound in the tempter's snare, 
Whom syren pleasure beckons in 

To prisons of despair, 
Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, 

Are wrecked on folly's shore, — 
But why in sorrow should we mourn 

For those who sin no more ? 

We mourn for those who weep, 

Whom stern afflictions bend 
With anguish o'er the lowly sleep 

Of loTer or of friend ; — 
But they to whom the sway 

Of pain and grief is o'er, 
Whose tears our God hath wiped away, 

Oh ! mourn for them no more i 

Mes. Sigourney. 



TOE GOLDEN GIFT. 103 



Sonnet. 

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day 
Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair 
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, 
Borne from its native genial airs away, 
That scarcely can a tender bud display ; 
So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, 
Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. 
While thus, Oh, sweetly scornful ! I essay 
Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, — 
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain ; 
So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown, 
That what he wills, he never wills in vain. 
Oh ! that this hard and sterile breast might be 
To him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free. 

COWPEE. 



104 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



May. 

Though many suns have risen and set 

Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
And bards, who hailed thee, may forget 

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
There are "who to a birth-day strain 

Confine not heart and voice, 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful and rejoice ! 

Delicious odors ! music sweet, 

Too sweet to pass away ! 
Oh ! for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire, — a lay 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 

And winter's dreary hour. 

Earth, sea, thy presence feel, — nor less, 

If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express, 

The heavens have felt it too. 
The inmost heart of man, if glad, 

Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
And eyes that cannot but be sad, 

Let fall a brightened tear. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 105 

Since thy return, through days and weeks 

Of hope that grew by stealth, 
How many wan and faded cheeks 

Have kindled into health ! 
The old, by thee revived, have said, 

" Another year is ours ; " 
And wayworn wanderers, poorly fed, 

Have smiled upon their flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers ? 
The tender infant who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears ; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath, 
His mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground ; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Thy favors may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have dressed, 
Thou, and thy train are proud to look, 

And seem to love it best. 



106 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 

When May is whispering, " Come, 
Choose from the bowers of virgin Earth 

The happiest for your home ; 
Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves ; 
Drops on the mouldering turret's head, 

And on your turf-clad graves ! " 

Wordsworth. 



Lines written in an Album. 

Passing through life's field of action, 
Lest we part before its end, 

Take within your modest volume, 
This memento from a friend. 

Passing through it, may we ever 
Friends continue as begun ; 

And till death shall part us, never 
May our friendship cease to burn. 



J. M. F. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 107 

Peace and Glory. 

WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OP WAR. 

Where now is the smile that lighten'd 

Every hero's couch of rest? 
Where is now the hope that brightened 

Honor's eye, and pity's breast? 
Have we lost the wreath we braided, 

For our weary warrior men ? 
Is the faithless olive faded, 

Must the bay be pluck'd again ? 

Passing hour of sunny weather, 

Lovely in your light awhile, 
Peace and glory wed together, 

Wander'd through the blessed isle ; 
And the eyes of Peace would glisten, 

Dewy as a morning sun, 
When the timid maid would listen 

To the deeds her chief had done. 

Is the hour of dalliance over ? 

Must the maiden's trembling feet 
Waft her from her warlike lover 

To the desert's still retreat ? 
Pare you well ! with sighs we banish 

Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; 
Yet the smile, with which you vanish, 

Leaves behind a soothing light. 



108 THB GOLDEN GIFT. 

Soothing light ! that kmg shall sparkle 

O'er your warrior's sanguine way, 
Through the field where horrors darkle, 

Shedding Hope's consoling ray ! 
Long the smile his heart will cherish, 

To its absent idol true, 
While around him myriads perish, 

Glory still will sigh for you ! 

T. Moore. 




THE GOLDEN GIFT. 109 



Wee Willie. 

Fare thee well, our last and fairest ! 

Dear wee Willie, fare thee well ; 
He who lent thee, hast recalled thee 

Back with Him and His to dwell. 
Fifteen moons their silver lustre 

Only o'er thy brow hath shed, 
When thy spirit joined the seraphs, 

And thy dust the dead. 

Like a sunbeam through our dwelling 

Shone thy presence bright and calm ; 
Thou didst add a zest to pleasure, — 

To our sorrows thou wert balm ; 
Brighter beamed thine eyes than summer ; 

And thy first attempt at speech 
Thrill'd our heart-strings with a rapture 

Music ne'er could reach. 

As we gazed upon thee sleeping, 

With thy fine fair locks out-spread, 
Thou didst seem a little angel, 

Who from heaven to earth had stray'd ; 
And, entranced we watch'd the vision, 

Half in hope and half affright, 
Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, 

Should dissolve in light. 



110 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Snows o'ermantled hill and valley ; 

Sullen clouds begrim'd the sky, 
When the first drear doubt oppress'd us, 

That our child was doom'd to die ! 
Through each long night-watch, the taper 

Showed the hectic of thy cheek ; 
And each anxious dawn beheld thee 

More wore out and weak. 

'T was even then Destruction's angel 

Shook his pinions o'er our path, 
Seized the rosiest of our household, 

And struck Charlie down in death ! 
Fearful, — awful ! Desolation 

On our lintel set his sign ; 
And we turned from his sad death-bed, 

Willie, round to thine. 

As the beams of spring's first morning 

Through the silent chamber play'd, 
Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee, 

And in thy small coffin laid ; 
Ere the day-star with the darkness, 

Nine times had triumphant striven, 
In one grave had met your ashes, 

And your souls in heaven ! 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. Ill 

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms 

Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth ; 
Two asleep lie buried under, — 

Three for us yet gladden earth. 
Thee, our hyacinth gay Charlie, — 

"Willie, thee our snow-drop pure, 
Back to us shall second spring time 

Never more allure ! 

Yet while thinking, — ! our lost ones ! 

Of how dear ye were to us, 
Why should dreams of doubt and darkness, 

Haunt our troubled spirits thus ? 
Why across the cold dim church-yard, 

Flit our visions of despair ? 
Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel 

Saith, — " Ye are not there." 

Where then, are ye ? With the Saviour 

Blest, — forever blest are ye, 
'Mid the sinless Uttle children, 

Who have heard his " Come to me ! " 
'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, 

Now ye lean upon his breast, 
Where the wicked dare not enter, 

And the weary rest. 



112 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

We are wicked, — we are weary ; 

For us pray and for us plead ; 
God, who ever hears the sinless, 

May through you the sinful heed. 
Pray that through Christ's mediation, 

All our faults may be forgiven ; 
Plead that ye be sent to greet us 

At the gates of heaven ! 



Anon. 



Nature. 

I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
The still sad music of humanity ; 
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. 

Wordsworth. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 113 



Nature's Beauties. 

There 's beauty in her when she springs 

From slumbers of the darksome night, 
And bears upon her joyous wings 

The cheerful beams of morning light. 
The sunlight sporting on the hills 

Illumes the dewy drops of morn ; 
With iris hues the welkin fills, 

And gorgeous tints the east adorn. 

When evening mantles earth and air, 

And silence reigns in bower and hall, 
And peaceful quiet, resteth where 

Were heard the merry laugh and call ; 
And up the sky its empress rides, 

Attended by her starry train ; 
And many a phantom round us glides, 

By woody marge, and dusky plain. 

And, too, when Spring chill Winter's cloak 

Throws off, and comes forth gayly free ; 
And every icy fetter 's broke, 

And wintry blasts with swiftness flee ; — 
Then softly comes on every gale, 

A voice of joyousness and love ; 
And zephyrs wafted from the vale 

Seem spirits from the land aboye. 



114 THE GOLDEN SIFT. 

Imbedded in their pebbly track, 

The crystal riv'lets wind along ; 
A gentle echo throwing back 

Like distant tones of fairy song. 
Sweet perfumes come on breezes mild, 

The offering of the opening flowers, 
And warbling songsters in each wild, 

Invite us to her festooned bowers. 

Autumn can beauties boast, though fast 

The wreaths of summer to decay 
Are falling, and the piercing blast, 

Flits sadly on its wintry way. 
Through leafless boughs and naked trees, 

The wind a mournful requiem sings 
For days departed, and the breeze 

A tale of sadness with it brings. 

In all her aspects, sad or gay, 
Are seen the beautiful and grand ; 

And on the spirits ever play 
Her messengers, with thrilling hand. 

W. A. SLEErER. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



The Worship of Nature. 

The ocean looketh up to heaven, 

As 't were a living thing ; 
The homage of its waves is given 

In ceaseless worshiping. 

They kneel upon the sloping sand, 
As bends the human knee, 

A beautiful and tireless band, 
The priesthood of the sea ! 

They pour the glittering treasures out 
Which in the deep have birth, 

And chant their awful hymns about 
The watching hills of earth. 

The green earth sends its incense up 
From every mountain shrine, 

From every flower and dewy cup 
That greeteth the sunshine. 

The mists are lifted from the rills 
Like the white wing of prayer ; 

They lean above the ancient hills, 
As doing homage there. 



1 

115 



116 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

The forest-tops are lowly cast 

O'er breezy bill and glen, 
As if a prayerful spirit pass'd 

On nature as on men. 

The clouds weep o'er the fallen world, 

E'en as a repentant love ; 
Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl'd, 

They fade in light above. 

The sky is as a temple's arch, 

The blue and wavy air 
Is glorious with the spirit-march 

Of messengers at prayer. 

The gentle moon, the kindling sun, 

The many stars, are given, 
As shrines to burn earth's incense on, 

The altar-fires of heaven ! 

J. G. Whittieb. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 117 



Youth. 

How beautiful the scenes of youth 

Awaken to the mind ! 
Scenes, like the summer ocean smooth, 
Serener, — fairer far, than truth 

On earth shall ever find ! 

Time is a tyrant, — months and years 
Pass onward like the sea, that leaves 
A solitary isle, which rears 
Its passive bosom, and appears 
Between the rolling waves. 

In life there is no second spring, — 
The past is gone, — for ever gone ! 

"We cannon check a moment's wing ; 

Pierce through futurity ; or bring 
The heart its vanished tone ! 

Resplendent as a summer sky, 

When daylight lingers in the wesft 
To retrospection's loving eye, 
The blooming fields of childhood he, 
By Eancy's finger drest. 



118 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

A greener foliage decks the grove, 
A brighter tint pervades the flowers ; 

More azure seems the heaven above ; 

The earth a very bower of love, 
And man within that bower ! 

And even when the storms of Fate 

Come darkening o'er the star of life, 
We backward turn to renovate 
Our thoughts with freshness, and create 
An antidote to strife. 

Thus dead and silent are the strings, 
As legends say, of Memnon's lyre ; 
Till, from the orient, Phoebus flings 
His smiles of golden light, and brings 
Life, harmony and fire ! 

BlackivoocPs Magazine. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. U9 



Is there a Heart 

Is there a heart that never loved, 

Or felt soft woman's sigh ? 
Is there a man can mark unmov'd 

Dear woman's tearful eye ? 
Oh ! bear him to some distant 

Or solitary cell, 
Where nought but savage monsters roar, 

Where love ne'er deign'd to dwell. 

For there 's a charm in woman's eye, 

A language in her tear ; 
A spell in every sacred sigh, 

To man, to virtue dear ; 
And he who can resist her smiles, 

With brutes alone should live, 
Nor taste the joy which care beguiles, 

That joy her virtues give. 

Anon. 



f 

120 THE GOLDEN GIFT, 



love. 

Mightier far 
Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's 
breast. 

"Wordsworth. 



Pure Affection. 

Oh, woman's love ! at times it may 
Seem cold or clouded, but it burns 

With true, undeviating ray, 
And never from its idol turns. 

Its sunshine is a smile, — a frown 

The heavy cloud that weighs it down ; 

A tear its weapon is, — beware 

Of woman's tears, — there 's danger there ! 

Its sweetest place on which to rest, 

A constant and confiding breast ; 

Its life to meet, —its death to part, — 

Its sepulchre, a broken heart. 

Crolt. 



THE GOLDEN GUT. 121 



The Denouement, 

They stood -within a recess shady, 
Apart from all, — and thus he said : 

" Dear cousin, wouldst thou know the lady, 
Whom I do love, whom I would wed ? " 

A moment glowed her youthful cheek, — 

A moment flashed her timid eyes, 
In mute reply, — she dared not speak ; 

Alas ! how soon her sweet hope dies ! 

" I '11 lead thee to her, — yonder, dearest ! " 
He took her hand, — 't was deadly cold ; 

They crossed the hall, — " What is 't thou fearest ! 
Look up, Julie ! — my iove behold ! " 

With sudden pride she dashed aside 
The curls that hid her drooping brow, 

" I welcome her," she proudly cried, 
And raised her eyes, — what sees she now ? 

No highborn dame to mock her shame, 

No rival robed in rich array ! 
Back to her cheek the color came, 

And warmer rose her pulse's play. 

Before her stood, in simple guise, 

Reflected by a mirror bright, 
Her own fair form ! — her own blue eyes 

Returned her gaze of wild delight ! 

F. S. Osgood. 



322 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Lines to . 

They tell us oft of the beautiful 

That dwells in woman's face ; 
Of the soul-lit eye, and fairy form, 

The poetry of grace. 

And gather from every language, 

The terms that best impress 
Upon the young and ardent fancy, 

Her gentle loveliness. 

But vain, I fear, are love's fondest words, 

Sweet girl, to tell of thee ; 
As pure, as heavenly beautiful, 

As poet's dream could be. 

The liquid eye, and the snowy brow, 
The smile, and dimple's play ; 

I know of nothing in earth or sky, 
As soft, as sweet as they. 

And the crimson hue that oft is seen 

Upon that cheek to start, 
With a deeper eloquence than words, 

It speaks the woman's heart. 

Yes ! beautiful is that youthful face, 

That form so light and free ; 
And sweet, oh ! sweet, that silvery smile, 

That fondly rests on me. 

Frank. Montraville. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 123 



The Southerner, to a Yankee. 

What ! write a burning billet-doux 

On common colored paper, 
And melt the wax to seal it, too, 

Within a tallow taper ! 

Not thus we woo our Georgian girls, 

They 'd scorn so poor a letter ; 
They 'd twist with it their silken curls, 

And bid us write a better. 

We seek a sweeter, purer leaf, 

To bear our passion to them ; 
Our tows are beautiful as brief ; 

I '11 tell you how we woo them. 

Deep in our southern forest-glooms, 

Our tempests proudly braving, 
The pure magnolia richly blooms, 

Its peerless blossoms waving. 

We pluck the leaf of perfumed snow, 

We trace love-verses on it, 
And as the quick thoughts breathe and glow, 

The flower makes sweet the sonnet. 

We tell the maid it mocks, in hue, 

Her fair and virgin forehead ; 
We say her lips' delicious dew 

The blossom's balm has borrowed. 



124 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 

Our sweet appeals in secret bower, 

We bid her con apart, 
And trace it on as fair a flower, 

Her own unsullied heart. 

'T is writ with plumes from Cupid's wing, — 

"With passion's kiss we seal it, 
Then free to zephyr's care we fling 

Our light and blooming billet ! 

Well guarded from blockade and breach, 
Must be that heart unsleeping, 

Such fragrant vows would fail to reach, 
Or fail, when reached, in keeping ! 

F. S. Osgood. 



Early Woo'd and Won. 

Oh ! sigh not for the fair young bride, 

Gone to her opening bloom, 
Far from her kindred, loved and tried, 

To glad another home ; 
Already are the gay brief days 

Of girlish triumph done, 
And tranquil happiness repays 

The early woo'd and won. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 125 



Fear shall invade her peace no more, 

Nor sorrow wound the breast, 
Her passing rivalries are o'er, 

Her passing doubts at rest ; 
The glittering haunts of worldly state 

Love whispers her to shun, 
Since scenes of purer bliss await 

The early woo'd and won. 

Here is a young and guileless heart, 

Confiding, fond, and warm, 
Unsullied by the world's vain mart, 

Unscathed by passion's storm ; 
In " hope deferred " she hath not pined, 

Till Hope's sweet course was run ; 
No chains of sad remembrance bind 

The early woo'd and won. 

Her smiles and songs have ceased to grace 

The halls of festal mirth, 
But woman's safest dwelling-place 

Is by a true one's hearth ; 
Her hours of duty, joy, and love, 

In brightness have begun ; 
Peace be her portion from above, 

The early woo'd and won. 

Mrs. Abdy. 



LDEN GIFT. 



Love Everywhere. 

Love knoweth every form of air, 

And every shape of earth, 
And comes unbidden, everywhere, 

Like thought's mysterious birth. 
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 

Are written with Love's words, 
And you hear his voice unceasingly, 

Like song in the time of birds. 

He peeps into the warrior's heart 

From the tip of a stooping plume, 
And the serried spears and the many men 

May not deny him room. 
He '11 come to his tent in the weary night 

And be busy in his dream ; 
And he '11 float to his eye in morning light 

Like a fay on a silver beam. 

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 

And rides on the echo back, 
And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, 

And flits in his woodland track. 
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 

The cloud and the open sky, — 
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 

Like the light of your very eye. 



THE GOLDEN GIFT. 127 

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 

And ponders the silver sea, 
Tor Love is under the surface hid, 

And a spell of thought has he. 
He heaves the -wave like a bosom sweet, 

And speaks in the ripple low, 
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 

And the hook hangs bare below- 

He blurs the print of the scholar's boob, 

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
And profanes the cell of the holy man, 

In the shape of a lady fair. 
In the darkest night, and the bright day -light, 

In earth, and sea, and sky, 
In every home of human thought, 

Will Love be lurking nigh. 

N. P. Willis. 




128 THE GOLDEN GIFT. 



Remembrance. 

I shall look back, when on the main, — 

Back to my native isle, 
And almost think I hear again 

Thy voice, and view thy smile. 

But many days may pass away, 

Ere I again shall see 
Amid the young, the fair, the gay, — 

One who resembles thee. 

Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell 

On some ideal maid, 
Whom fancy's pencil pictured well, 

And touched with softest shade, — 

The imaged form I shall survey, 

And, pausing at the view, 
Recall thy gentle smile, and say, 

" Oh ! such a maid I knew ! " 

Bowles. 



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INDIANA 46962 







